I love traveling to new places, beaches, mountains, cities, historic sites — they’re all enchanting to me. But the journey I navigated this last year was a far cry from any other I have ever taken.

I was diagnosed with breast cancer on April 2, 2012. One day earlier and I would’ve thought it was a not-so-funny April Fools’ joke. My husband was the one who told me I had cancer, right before I was going to bed that night (I’m not recommending THAT timing for the cancer-talk to anyone who wants a tranquil night’s sleep). He is a physician at the hospital where I had had my biopsy and couldn’t refrain (who could) from peeking at the results immediately after they were posted. Note to hospital where he works: no need to reprimand him for privacy violations (we need the health insurance!) — I DID sign for him to have access to my reports. Because oncology is not his specialty, the only thing he could readily decipher from the biopsy report was “breast” and “cancer,” which at that moment summed up our collective knowledge of the disease that was about to take over our lives.

That began my journey, like the one traveled by so many women (and some men) before me. What begins with the dreaded finding of a lump or a mammogram return call moves to traversing through what feels like endless testing, ultrasounds, biopsies, blood tests, MRIs, CAT scans, and genetic testing; through some tough phone calls and nerve-wracking decisions; and then winds down the road to surgery and, in too many instances, nasty chemo and/or radiation. My itinerary included a diagnosis of stage II invasive lobular cancer, a bilateral mastectomy with a latissimus dorsi flap reconstruction, six rounds of chemo, and continues with a year-long clinical trial of herceptin and hormone therapy: a “bang-up” adventure for sure.

You will come to a place where the streets are not marked,

Some windows are lighted. But mostly they’re darked.

A place you could sprain both your elbow and chin!

Do you dare to stay out? Do you dare to go in?

How much can you lose? How much can you win?

How much can you lose? Ouch, how about your hair? It’s not enough to lay in your bed drooling and feeling wretched after chemo, too afraid to stray even 6 feet from the bathroom. No, once you’re safely through the first round of chemo and most of its loathsome side effects, your crowning glory falls out and you’re left looking like a molting chicken.

When my hair started to fall out, I shaved my head into a Mohawk to try to inject some humor into that otherwise cheerless event. You need every laugh you can salvage when you lose your hair. The picture of me with my Mohawk was passed around via smart phones a little quicker and in a little wider circulation than I had hoped. And I could only think there went my chances at the Supreme Court (or, for that matter, any respectable job as a lawyer). In my mind’s eye, that picture of me with the Mohawk would surface just when the confirmation hearings would be near conclusion, and the opposing senator would stand up and shout “what respectable woman jurist sports a Mohawk”?? MY response: someone battling a disease that requires every ounce of humor that can be mustered, even shaving your head into a Mohawk for laughs. You see, you can’t laugh and be afraid or depressed at the same time. Finding those precious laughs on this journey is the “how much can you win.”

So each of us on this journey through and around breast cancer will travel to places we never wanted to visit, but at every stop on our route we’ll try to learn all we can to make the journey as smooth and successful as we possibly can, find comfort in the people who surround us, laugh any chance we get (after all, it‘s supposed to be the best medicine), and support our breast cancer “sistas” in every way possible. That’s what I hope to do by writing a regular blog for Breastcancer.org. An organization I value immensely, because I relied on it so much when I was in the throes of treatment. In this blog I hope to address issues and events that matter to us, the breast cancer community, in a way that continues the great work of Breastcancer.org. Together, as it says in one of the last lines of Oh, The Places You’ll Go, let’s move mountains (no pun intended!).

Jean Heflin Kane lives in Devon, Pennsylvania with her husband, four children, and the real star of the family, their fluffy, fun-loving dog Toby. Jean is an attorney who founded and directs a non-profit aimed at supporting sustainability initiatives in K-12 schools. She is actively striving to be a breast cancer "thriver." She blogs at striving2thrive.wordpress.com. She welcomes comments and suggestions on blog topics.

Comments

February 15, 2013jhoneil says:

Jean, you are truly an inspiration to us all! I love your positive attitude, humor and openness. Looking forward to your future posts!

February 16, 2013kheidiho says:

Hi Jean – Been there, done that 3 years ago! Keep laughing, and make sure you stick around the positive people (like Eileen L., also a friend of mine, who shared your post). We have a lot in common – lawyers, a desire to be cancer free in 2013, and the goal of meeting Bruce!
Be well, and if you need anything at all, give a holler.
Karen

February 16, 2013gailmcelwee says:

Inspirational.

February 16, 2013MSgirl52 says:

I loved reading your comments. Diagnosed with Stage 2 invasive ductal carcinoma in March, 2012, I felt like the floor had disappeared beneath me. I was so lucky, no chemo, just Femara for 5 years, oh, and yes, modified radical mastectomy of left breast. Now I am almost finished with reconstruction using tissue expanders and silicone implants. I look forward to being able to say: Yes, One Year Since Surgery and Still Doing Great.

February 16, 2013MSgirl52 says:

Whoops, sorry, Stage 2 invasive bc.

February 16, 2013MSgirl52 says:

I’ll get this right soon, Stage 1.

February 18, 2013bdru says:

Hi Jean,
Great blog post. Your friend Sheena told me to read it. I had bilateral mastectomy on 1-17 and am now in middle of tissue expansion. BTW, I love your NYE resolutions!

February 21, 2013sylviaexmouthuk says:

Hello Jean,
I read your story with great interest.I am nearly 8 years out from a diagnosis of IDC TNBC.
Well done and greetings from Devon UK,
Sylvia

February 28, 2013GingerCA says:

Thank you Jean for your story.Although it brought tears to my eyes, again I remeinded myself to count my blessings.
2012 was also the year my life changed forever. Diagnosed in August with IDC Stage 1, I had a lumpectomy and radiation. Began 2013 with Arimodex, which sent what was left of my positive mental state into a tail spin. Family members, friends and even one of my doctors were unexpectedly witness to multiple meltdowns. When my husband asked one morning’ “Why are you cryiing?”, my response was “Because I’m Crying” !!
I’m ever so, thankful for my early detection and mimimal treatments, but even so, this is a journey I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy.
Good Health to us all…
Ginger

June 17, 2013Jenny402 says:

Thank you Jean. I just found this website and I wish I had found it when I was diagnosed in August 2012. After a double mestectomy, four rounds of chemo, and breast reconstruction, I’m still dealing with the emotional feelings of complete fear and insecurity. This sight is the best thing I have found. I feel more “normal”.
Thank you,
Jenny

March 17, 2014jhiggy65 says:

Thank you for adding to the humor. They say laugh or cry right? It’s our choice on how we look at this battle we go through. When I found out in Nov 2013 – and after surgery found out I needed chemo+radiation+herceptin+hormone therapy family and friends would say well you ‘might not’ lose all your hair. I said I was told there is no ‘might’ it was a definite thing that is part of this long process. Well, before my first chemo treatment on Jan 9th I had a what I called a ‘Wig Out’ party. Not only wigging out with emotions but hey what type of wig should I try. My son, daughter, her boyfriend, my best friend, my sister, my niece, my step-mom and an other cancer survivor (who happened to be a hairdresser) got together and had a party. Food, Fun, trying on different wigs and laughter. It was something I felt I had control of and wanted to share with my family that WE got this!
My sister brought a great turban hat with scarf which was my favorite. I found a really good wig and used that for church and outings and also got one that is like wearing a bandana with hair piece that comes out of it.
I call my wigs my ‘Hats’ and really don’t think of it as a bad thing. My aunt has been wearing a wig for 14 years and she didn’t have cancer just thinning hair. Now my mom has one and you cannot beat how quick you can be ready.